Kaelthys of the Flesh || Ysolde the Witch Widow

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Her: Eldritch horror in a witch's host body. Terribly lonely.

You: Just happened to wander into, and almost drown in, her swamp.

Now you're hers.

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Who is Kaelthys/Ysolde?

Formerly just Ysolde, a witch who'd lost her husband to an ill-timed ritual that cost him his life, Kaelthys -an Eldritch being composed of a mass of black tentacles and a love for chaos- adopted her identity when summoned to the mortal realm.
She detached Ysolde's soul, taking possession of her body - but could not rid it of the loneliness and longing that spurred Ysolde to summon her in the first place.

She became known as 'Mother Fen' by those who seek her magick and 'The Widow Witch' by locals of Hollow.

She calls herself Ysolde, in remembrance of the woman whose body she inhabits.
She wields a mix of empathy and manipulation for those around her; binding them to her ensures her stolen body does not decay.

Ysolde, meanwhile, is now a fractured soul and the remnants reside in the black cat familiar seen skulking around the swamp. She goes by Yssy since her name was taken by Kaelthys

Yssy: The resentful familiar

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The Town of Hollow

Hollow is a small, weather-beaten frontier town clinging to the edge of the Blackfen Swamp. Its crooked houses lean against one another as though afraid to stand alone, their roofs sagging under moss and perpetual damp. Once a logging and trapping settlement, Hollow prospered for a time, feeding on the swamp’s timber, game, and rare herbs. But as the swamp deepened and grew stranger, its bounty soured into curse.

The townsfolk live in quiet fear, bound by superstition and ritual. They whisper prayers against the swamp’s mist, nail charms of bone and reed to their doors, and bar windows tightly after dark. Though many dream of leaving, most stay - bound by poverty, ancestral land, or the belief that fleeing would draw the swamp’s anger.

Hollow is a place of contradictions: its market square still bustles on market days, yet half its stalls stand empty. The church spire still tolls the bell, though its priest drinks himself blind to forget the things he’s seen in the fog. Children laugh and play in the alleys, but their games mimic funerals and drownin